


Anamnesis

by The Rose Mistress (Semilune)



Series: Alternate Universe FFXIV [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Anticipation, Body Worship, Complicated Relationships, Crushes, Crystal Tower Questline (Final Fantasy XIV), Cunnilingus, Daydreaming, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enthusiastic Consent, Established Relationship, Explicit Consent, F/M, Final Fantasy XIV: A Realm Reborn, Final Fantasy XIV: Stormblood, Final Fantasy XIV: Stormblood Spoilers, First Kiss, Flashbacks, Frottage, Kissing, Love, M/M, Masturbation, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Multi, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Past Relationship(s), Pheromones, Polyamory, Porn with Feelings, Reminiscing, Rough Kissing, Self-Discovery, Self-Hatred, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Humor, Sexual Tension, Undressing, a lot of consent, but the point is: G'raha and Sam REALLY want this, emphasis on the consent because I really dislike dubcon and heatfic feels vaguely dubcon by nature, nerds being nerds
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:29:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25964395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Semilune/pseuds/The%20Rose%20Mistress
Summary: Chapter: Solstice, Part II.NSFW!! 18+!!Broad hands snatched her face.  She thrilled at the contact—no push or pull.  Instead, he merely clung as he recaptured his breath, panting as though they just raced through the maze of the Fogfens.  “Samantha.”  His voice was dark, deadly serious.  “Are you saying—”“That I wanted to kiss you this whole entire time?”  She laughed again.  Somehow the giggling shattered the tension, helped pull her glazed focus away from the thirst.  “Yes, you nutty, nattering, nonpareil—”✦ SPOILERS! FFXIV Stormblood Endgame (4.0), and Crystal Tower (2.0 patches), mild implied 5.0 spoilers.★ Will eventually be VERY FILTHY! 18+ ONLY!!I publicly blame Tenkeyless and thedreamerdelta.☾ ☄ ☽There was only one time this had happened, when all she craved was succor—She kept that memory locked deep in her labyrinth of reminiscence.Red and blue and diamond-sharp around the edges, all too lovely, all too awful to remember.Yet instead of sobbing or shouting, she whispered his name—The name she held most forbidden.☽ ✧ ☾
Relationships: Aymeric de Borel/Estinien Wyrmblood, Aymeric de Borel/Warrior of Light, Aymeric de Borel/Warrior of Light/Estinien Wyrmblood, G'raha Tia | Crystal Exarch/Warrior of Light
Series: Alternate Universe FFXIV [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1688134
Comments: 46
Kudos: 70
Collections: Heat Wave





	1. Table of Contents

**Author's Note:**

> The premise: "What if feelings of safety brought on someone's cycles of heat?" See also: half-Garlean f!WoL in established polyamorous triad with Aymeric and Estinien, remembering the sole other time this has happened ... which was with G'raha Tia. Flashbacks and quenching ensue.
> 
> As usual, this attempt to "just write some heat fic" became far more serious than intended. Also as usual, this hearkens back to my canon Ishgard sandwich, [Astral Fire, Umbral Heart](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12599668/chapters/28699292), and the bit of post-Shadowbringers (and maybe not so unrequited love) I've written, [Interscintillance](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19782502/chapters/46832398).
> 
> Technically AU but AU is my brand these days.

* * *

☽ **Foreword** ☾

This was supposed to be "just a heatfic" challenge, but here we are. 

I started this file on Saturday, July 25th, of this year twenty-twenty, at approximately nine o'clock PM. This "casual oneshot" is currently at a wordcount of over 11k. I suppose it's always good to know some things never change.

This can be considered a "mostly canonical" (at least emotionally speaking) offshoot of my WoL examination, which started in ["Astral Fire, Umbral Heart."](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12599668/chapters/28699292) I'm doubtful as to whether or not Samantha actually canonically undergoes "heats," so that's the main stretch; but at some point in [The Bookclub](https://discord.gg/qGQ8Grj) we decided Garleans might experience them, and since Sam's half Garlean ... here we are.

Relationships include Ishgard Sandwich (Aymeric/WoL/Estinien) and historical WoL/G'raha Tia.

Obviously this will become very unsafe for work very quickly, but as usual, as always, orbits relentlessly around matters of the heart. 

Thank you, as always, for reading.

* * *

**☙ Table of Contents ❧**

* * *

  1. **Foreword & Table of Contents**  
You are here!
  2. **Retrograde**  
Samantha Rosalyn Floravale is in a peculiar predicament after the events of the Royal Menagerie.  
  
Mixed POV, Aymeric de Borel and Warrior of Light. Aymeric/WoL and implied WoL/G'raha. Only mildly NSFW.
  3. **Solstice, Part I  
** Between them, a current was whirling—a precipice, rapidly shrinking.   
“Would you tell me, Samantha,” he breathed, watching fiercely through his lashes, “If you wanted—my assistance?”   
  
WoL POV flashback. WoL/G'raha. Mainly M-rated, not quite explicit yet.
  4. **Solstice, Part II** **  
**Broad hands snatched her face. She thrilled at the contact—no push or pull. Instead, he merely clung as he recaptured his breath, panting as though they just raced through the maze of the Fogfens. “Samantha.” His voice was dark, deadly serious. “Are you saying—” “That I wanted to kiss you this whole entire time?” She laughed again. Somehow the giggling shattered the tension, helped pull her glazed focus away from the thirst. “Yes, you nutty, nattering, nonpareil—”  
  
 _Explicit, NSFW 18+.  
_ WoL POV, hurt/comfort memories and WoL/G'raha flashback.
  5. **Solstice, Part III**  
[TBA]
  6. **Equinox**  
[TBA]  
  




* * *

☄

* * *


	2. Retrograde

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What had her bright burdens brought her but anguish?   
> What but friends and dear ones lost too soon to the pyre?
> 
> She took a deep breath through her nose to taste the brine, to salt the fire already kindled. And instead of sobbing or shouting, she whispered his name—
> 
> The name she held most forbidden.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aymeric POV followed by WoL POV. Technically this chapter is extremely "canon" for Stormblood-era Sam, Estinien, and Aymeric (aside from the cycles of estrus bit). Not extremely NSFW yet, but We Are Getting There.

* * *

☾ ✧ ☽

Months apart. 

Months of pining. 

Months of missives from the Witch and sparse reports from the Wastrel, while the Warden himself remained shackled to Ishgard.

Aymeric thought himself prepared to see them. How many times, after all, had he imagined their reunion? What assortment of environs, predicted and envisaged? Perhaps a shady grove near to the Shroud, sister-land to Coerthas; knight and hero stirring leaf-fall in the thicket, white wraith shadowing their path. Or might they converge in the deserts girdling Thanalan, sorceress spinning her spells in the sand, bewitching the lord and his liegeman?

Instead it was here in her mother’s arid root land—Gyr Abania, where cliffs were sheer, air was thin, and water heavy with salt—here in Ala Mhigo on behest, where peacetime was scarce and discretion far scarcer. 

Aymeric led the Knights through the fortress, razing foes in their tracks. Black curls drenched with sweat, perspiration stinging his eyelids, thoughts on combat and _commanding—_ the buzz of blood in his ears drowned out the shouts of officers behind him—

Drowned out all but his _name._

_Ser Estinien!_

Aymeric crippled the forelegs of a warmachina with blows from Naegling, and an electric presence surged up to his right. “To me,” came the gruff bark, cold and demanding, the voice Borel knew better than the ballad of his own heart. The bastard spun on his sole to press his spine to the hound; felt their backbones meet through layers of armor and vestments, and dug his sore heels into the ground. 

Around them, warmth crackled; the same matchless depth of arcane power Aymeric so often felt from Samantha.

“About time,” drawled the Lord Commander. He dared tilt his head—caught a glimmer of long silver hair. “I confess, I—”

A wild-eyed imperial grunt clambered forth to meet his blade. Aymeric parried back; moved in sync with Estinien as thin wisps of dark, sparkling aether swirled to rise around them. Just past the edge of his vision loomed the threat of something heavy—but with a rush of static that prickled the hair on his neck, Aymeric felt the heat of wyrm breath—smelled smoke and oil, and heard the groaning screech of metal.

A satisfied rumble behind him. “Save your poetry for later,” Estinien said.

And so he did. 

Patience and perseverance; perhaps his finest distinctions.

But in the hours after the conquest, after the rout of the lunatic prince, Estinien vanished—to say nothing of _Samantha_. Lord Commander heard of the lackluster finale, but what transpired _beforehand?_ What remained untold above that courtyard of flowers, where waltzed the Hex and the Devil?

He was swamped by tending soldiers— _so many injured—_ stolen away to Alliance conversations— _beginning next steps._ The talk was parched and well-practiced, damnably diplomatic, and though he possessed the uncanny knack to compose pacts and treaties in his sleep, to say he was _weary_ was a sore understatement.

How many times, in the heady froth of shock and victory that followed them to midday, had Aymeric dreamt of creeping _away?_

 _Later,_ Estinien would say. 

Time, again, to _delay_.

And so, when she appeared from the shadows, sudden and spellbinding as ever, Lord Speaker studied, with worry, the Warrior’s faraway stare—

For why, after nothing but triumph, did she look so _defeated?_

Later, indeed, pocketing canteen of tea and tin of ginger biscuits— _her favorite_ —Aymeric slunk away from the crowds like a specter, spying her near the edge of the Alliance encampment. She struck a magnificent figure in the afternoon penumbra; stood and stared at the horizon as though she summoned the night, a broad-shouldered flash of darkness trimmed in fire and light. 

_Divine astral enchantress._

He cleared his throat and wet his lips and smoothed back his wayward cowlicks, still wild and roughened from exertions of battle. She startled at the sense of his approach—turned just enough to lay eyes on him. The desert air caught in her dark, tangled tresses, twisting them in whorls past her neck. A fresh bruise; a line pocked her jaw— 

In her time away from Ishgard, how many unmapped marks had she acquired?

Her mouth was opened, but all words inside it went silent. Her fierce eyes burned paths down his body, and in his throat, his pulse sped. Spine tense with fresh purpose, he closed the rest of the distance, and—

Before he could present his paltry gifts to his goddess, her arms were slung around his waist, the hallowed give and take of her body crushed against him. And there, thrillingly heedless to all that might witness, she raked rough, callused hands up his backbone, stiff even through kirtle and surcoat. Her weary face pressed to his chest. 

“Gods,” she gasped, hot through his layers. She angled her ear above his sternum and sighed.

His heart skipped a beat as he realized—she was _listening_. He leaned his cheek upon the warm crown of her head and closed his eyes, breathing deep of her scent— _sweat and rosehips_ —allowed himself to hold her just as dearly. A hum of primitive, jealous delight rolled through his chest and he laughed at himself, thin and breathy. “Do I flatter myself overmuch to take this as proof that you missed me?”

A weak bark from her in return. “Of course I did, you old bollock,” she huffed, digging her nose against his breastbone. She grumbled. “You smell like too much bloody ceruleum and not enough _Borel.”_

That made him laugh again. “An occupational hazard.” He felt her body tense by an inconspicuous margin, only perceptible thanks to their closeness; smoothed lips across her hair in an offer of solace. “Would you care for tea or biscuits?”

She leaned back to blink up at him—to give him one stunned, crooked smile. “You brought _tea and biscuits?”_

His own lopsided grin in answer. “’Twould be a mockery, indeed, were I without them.”

His cloak a bulwark, her skirts a pillion, together, they squatted on sun-warmed stone there at the edge of the Ala Mhigan Quarter. He retrieved the canteen and uncapped it; caught the blaze of adoration in her eyes. He passed the drink between them. She sipped and slithered, near enough to buttress her weight on his shoulder, pressing them thigh to thigh. And then, without preamble. “I missed you near enough to break me, Ser Aymeric de Borel,” she said. Simple, husky voice full of gravel, cracked and hoarse from the brawling and shouting—

And then, all at once, the desert was his throat. 

“As did I,” he managed, rough and breathless. The tin of biscuits lay forgotten as he snaked an arm around her, grasping and simply enjoying her presence. Such moments were uncommon—luxuries far too rare for his liking. 

The tea was brewed with lemon, cut with honey, and between them, beneath the hanging sun, they finished the refreshment. Aymeric clung to her as though he could cling to time itself; as though he could suspend the sand in the hourglass.

The tip of her nose and her lips brushed his neck, and he shivered.

To hells with whomever was watching. 

Softly, gently, he seized the hair at her nape and leaned to kiss. She tasted sweet and bitter, sugared citrus and friction. But her mouth opened, helpless in reflex, and he drank every scrap of communion she gave him. 

Reality blurred. In one foggy wrinkle of his psyche, he seemed to recall certain merits to _restraint_. But when he combed firm fingers up her scalp and her tongue swept into his mouth, he deepened the kiss with a greed he swore he reserved for the boudoir. Desperate times, he supposed, called for desperate measures—

Samantha broke contact with a swiftness that was jarring—broke away from him entirely, falling back. She licked her lips and swept her damp fringe with one hand; one hand she then held clenched, in her lap. 

For a heartbeat of silence, he watched her. Then he reached to touch her fist and found it clammy. 

She flinched away. His heart sank—still more as she lurched to her feet. But there, looming above him, when she trained her dark eyes on his face, they were wide and contrite. “I—apologies. Find me tonight.” She glanced back toward the bleached columns and courtyards, the silhouettes of their friends. The salt of her sweat and her stale, honeyed breath drifted over the brine of the Lochs, touched with the vaguest edge of petals.

Confusion far from dispelled, he made her his promise. “I shall.”

And then she was gone, and he was left, again, to wait.

* * *

✧ ☄ ☽

No.

 _Gods,_ no. Not _this._

She paced back to the group that loitered for her return. Alphinaud grasped her elbow in clear determination—less and less timid, she was proud to give him credit. He pulled her to the side.

Even he, for all his naivety, could tell something was wrong. “Sam—”

“All is well,” she lied, forcing a twist to her lips. 

From the look in his eyes, it took shape as a grimace. “Tell me the truth, Samantha. How many times must I—”

“Not now.” She kept the snap from her voice; resisted the urge to glare down at him. In no realm was she prepared to explain it to _Alphinaud Leveilleur._ “Let me go and tell the others not to follow. I need—time to myself.”

Though a faint line creased his brow and tension curled his mouth, he released her; hissed under his breath as she made her escape. “I _will_ expect answers,” came the reminder, crisp and demanding as a sibling or a parent. 

She snorted and fled, glad for the levity, disgusted by context. For as soon as Aymeric kissed her, every nerve in her body went blazingly _alight._ Not that it was strange for him to make her feel awakened.But this was a disastrous variation—a monstrous, calamitous rearrangement of the theme.

Luckily, she thought, as she scaled a score of fat fortress steps, if Aymeric kept his word—she laughed to think he ever might _not—_ this strange, unbidden sensation might be _quenched._

But then again—

And so it came to be that Samantha Rosalyn Floravale, Liberator of Ala Mhigo, paced the stark floor of her short-term bedchamber, half-naked and uncomfortably _hot_. Her body was vaguely afire. Even in nothing but smalls and bralette that served as underbodice, her skin was ablaze—and the fiercer she tried to douse it, the hotter it ignited. Warm tears, almost cool upon her infernal flesh, squeezed past her eyelids and she scoffed.

Why this? _Why now?_

Why, after that travesty in the Menagerie—of all the damned times and _unfortunate places—_

Unbidden, the cold gaze of Zenos burned through the back of her mind; rings of cruel ceruleum fire, vicious and _persistent._ To believe he was dead was a lie. Surely, somewhere, he waited—learned his quick sidesteps to counter her magicks—hunted her, _seeking,_ avoiding evasion, ready to strike when she was weakest.

But _no._

Another spate of fever drowned her body. _I saw him fall with my own eyes._

He is gone. _He can stalk me no longer._

The pit of her stomach clenched. A bead of sweat slipped down her neck, and she stripped herself of her last scraps of garments, biting back her urge to _yell._ Because the more embers blazed beneath her skin, the more clandestine remembrance threatened. There was only one time this had happened; one night _before_ , one menacing shock to her system, when all she craved was succor—

The touch of the one she would _die for._

She kept that memory locked deep in her labyrinth of reminiscence. Kept _him_ buried, where no one might reach him—so far down she would never be tempted _herself._ For he was a secret too painful, too telling. Red and blue and diamond-sharp around the edges, all too lovely, all too _awful_ to remember.

Naked, body and soul, she yanked fingers through her hair; hissed through the tracks of fresh tears. She lunged to the window to throw the shutters open. She would have screamed into the sky if she knew no one might listen—

If she wasn’t the bloody damned _Warrior of Light._

What had her bright burdens brought her but anguish? 

What but friends and dear ones lost too soon to the pyre?

Night was falling. She could smell it on the air. Her rage gave way to weakness in the budding Gyr Abanian twilight, brackish wind whipping her hair. She took a deep breath through her nose to taste the brine, to salt the fire already kindled. And instead of sobbing or shouting, she whispered his name—

The name she held most forbidden.

“Raha.”

☽ ✧ ☾

* * *


	3. Solstice, Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Between them, a current was whirling—a precipice, rapidly shrinking.
> 
> “Would you tell me, Samantha,” he breathed, watching fiercely through his lashes, “If you wanted—my assistance?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WoL POV flashback. WoL/G'raha. Mainly M-rated, not quite explicit yet.

* * *

✧ ☄ ☽

The stars glittered over Mor Dhona, a scattered diamond necklace in the dark. 

Through the lens of memory, vision blurred—a twinkle of crepuscular smudges in the window. 

When had it _happened_ , exactly? How many Allagan terrors had they met before _that night_ —one of many spent cramped and tucked together, hungry for comfort and closeness, overwarm in the small of that bunk?

And just how long did they share that old mattress? How many evenings, pretzeled together, huddled like tomes on a shelf? Since the nightmarish Castrum Meridianum, the season was restless—but even before, she was insomniac; never dreamed sleep might settle more swiftly with someone safe and savvy beside her.

G’raha was excessively each of those things, his rhythm of breathing a potent lullaby. And after the first time he laughed and made room for her to join him, she always snuck in alongside; loved to jam her cold toes on his thick-flannelled thighs.

… It was well past midnight when she woke in a sweat.

For gods-knew-how-long in that cool Silvertear twilight, she struggled to fall back asleep; took deep breaths of musty air and rearranged herself as subtly as possible, careful not to—

His tail was a furred, flesh-and-bone rope beneath her shoulder— _how in the hells—_ and she jerked away before she could crush it; cringed when the rickety bedframe griped and groaned. 

And then, to her horror, his exhausted voice. 

_“_ _Samantha.”_

“Shite.” She flinched into a thwarted comma.

Before she could apologize, G’raha laughed, hoarse and breathy. “Nightmares?” 

The pallet shifted. Faced away, she felt how he propped and positioned; knew he bent to rise upon one pale, sunburned elbow, long copper fringe no doubt fallen in his face. He spoke again, a catch in the edge of his resonant voice; a rasping gruffness that, for all his abundance of teasing and mischief, her field partner rarely _naturally_ possessed. 

“Are—” A pause. “Are you quite _well?”_

Her skin felt overdamp. She sighed and squirmed out of the moth-eaten blankets. 

“It’ll pass.” She struggled to a sit. Odd, that she was breathless. With one hand, she twisted up her long tresses—smoothed flattened knuckles against her forehead and scowled. _Burning_. A fever, no doubt; some germ catching her body unawares. After weeks of exertions up and down the unending stories of Syrcus Tower, it was hardly what one could call alarming. Hero or no, she was still a mortal creature, subject to all mortal flaws—

Infirmity decidedly one of them.

G’raha crouched higher. She balled away, tighter—a feat in the slim accommodation. “I don’t want you to catch it,” she grumbled.

Strangely, quietly, almost _ironically,_ he laughed. “If I catch it—I daresay I catch it.” He spoke smoothly and quickly and perhaps with a whiff of apprehension. Then another shift behind her, suspicious of shrugging.“My body has handled far worse.”

His voice was rich, almost indulgent. Though he used it so often to banter and jest, it was a tool made for extoling old stories—for narrating lectures, a feast for the senses. The finest treat was his singing, when she managed to catch him. Not that she would say it to _Raha, Twelve forfend._ His ego would never survive the confession; swell to insufferable eminence just to know how often she _listened_.

History was lucky to have such a powerful instrument.

His hand stroked her back, the tips of blunt nails on her nightgown. After so many weeks in close quarters, he learned the sorts of touches she liked; the places she held the most tension— _jaw, temples, shoulders—_ and ones she kept _strictly forbidden._ But his hands were humble, respectful, and strong. For all he claimed they were far better suited for bowstrings and leafing through papers, his palms were wide, fingers mighty. Broad and unpretentious. Big-knuckled, when G’raha Tia, absurdly well-versed in size-related jests, barely stood to the brims of her—

“Tea,” came his offer, very brusque. “Consider it steeped.” Down along the middling rungs of her spine, the back of his hand scraped a calming meander. The pallet creaked as he crept to the edge. A good thing he moved, because perhaps _there,_ as he swept nimbly to his feet, red tail whipping like a phantom past his tartan nightpants, G’raha managed not to notice her _shiver._

_Oh._

_Oh no._

Her heart skipped two beats. Maybe three. A tremble leached down her backbone, percolating in the wake of his well-meaning gesture. And then, from toe tips to scrunch of her fists, her blood hurried, hot beneath her skin. She gawked as he cornered the partition, and realized she was _staring—_ hypnotized by shirtless muscles, every sinew in his _back_ —the linen-clad curves of his stout, shapely— 

She swallowed hard enough to make sound. Holy heavens. Not _Raha—_

But … _why not?_

He was bold, and _brave_ —a bibliophile and a _polymath—_

And hells. She knew exactly how she felt about _that._

Samantha snatched nervous fistfuls of bedclothes to stay herself from _chasing;_ from tackling him to the floorboards like an animal _,_ scrambling into his lap and wiggling _down_ , begging him to notice, to need, to—

She gulped the urge to groan aloud. 

What in the name of the Twelve was she _thinking?_ After what happened with Thancred—or, really, _never did—_ she was outlawed from lusting for Scions. And G’raha was a Scion, or good as the rest after the exploits of this summer. 

How many grimoires, charts, and maps were devoured between them, meals grilled on campfires, besides? How many times had she watched him lick his fingers, to catch some lingering flavor or flick a page aside? And what of the moments he spied her secret attention, both voyeurs fettered by pride? Color crept up his neck while eyes of teal and scarlet crept down her body, ephemeral enough to pretend it never happened.

_But he was guilty—_

A wave of desire, near to nauseous, surged down her spine. She swallowed it; flinched at perspiration on her neck, the gnawing building low beneath her belly. Every nerve was on fire, _scalding hot,_ and something inside was frenetic and _starving,_ too far down to be the meeker kind of hunger.

And now it was clear that it was G’raha Tia she _starved for._

She tried to sneak a glance at him again, but he was out of sight. Not that this yearning was even so new or surprising. Not that she would say it, _least of all to Raha._ But moments in private, she caught herself thinking—maybe, in some other life or distant timeline …

What that soft, sly mouth might _taste like._

One small confession, if only to herself, and heat bled through her in cobwebs, seating deep between her thighs. And then, in full force, she imagined it; G’raha’s smirk against her throat—the gluttonous drag of full lips and his _canines—_

She pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth and gasped out a moan.

_Bollocks._

Under the half-rumpled bedclothes, she squeezed her legs together; double-fisted hands in the blankets to resist the urge to _touch herself_. Wrong, to want him like that. _Wrong,_ to think of those string-bending, tome-trawling thumbs on her hipbones _—_ the stroke of that smart, puckish tongue on her skin— _wrong,_ to feel muscles unused and long-forgotten ache and clench as she dreamt up the ghost of his—

“Y-you never mentioned falling allergic,” came his voice, dry and wavering. “To herbal extracts or the like?”

Her voice cracked. “Not to my knowledge.” 

The bunk was an inferno, her flesh a smoldering shackle, but she was terrified to move. Terrified, that if she let herself glimpse him again—his _body—a bookman, an archer—_

She would do something worth regretting.

He slipped back into sight. His crisp shock of red hair caught the filtered moonlight, ears flicked forward. “It might taste peculiar,” he was saying, mismatched stare trained on the pair of steaming mugs he carried. “But if my conjecture is correct, it should begin to palliate the—” He coughed and closed the distance to the bed, brow tense, lips pressed thin. “Tell me if it helps,” he finished, abnormally abrupt.

He offered a cup.

From where he stood at the edge of the mattress, G’raha’s eyes flicked to hers for an instant before finding the floor.

Wisps of vapor drifted from the drinks. Dazed, Samantha stared—first at the steam clouds, then G’raha, nervous dimples indenting his cheeks. She took the offering and swiped tongue across her chapped mouth, wondering how, exactly, in heavens or hells or _anything else_ she allowed herself even _one fleeting_ _moment_ of yearning for this awkward, timid—crafty— _kindhearted_ —pedantic brat of a— _tricksy, devious_ —shrewd and _charming—_

Her eyebrows beetled in frustration and she took a big swallow. 

The tea was cooled, warm and wafting though it was, with a flavor much like Bryony’s blends. It blazed a sleek, floral track down her throat. Samantha licked her lips and raised her eyebrows. “Spearmint mingled with … valerian?”

“And a smidge of chamomile.” G’raha sipped.

Mint tea with valerian root was calming—a bedtime mix her mother used to make. Chamomile, known for the same. Herbs to soothe unease and anxiety, but fever? … “Raha,” she muttered, low and warning, scowling at whatever he was certainly concealing. “What are you keeping from me?”

He lifted his eyes, teal and scarlet past rust-colored lashes; searched her stare and took a stiff, sudden breath. His thin pupils widened. The apple of his throat bobbed past his marks of Knowing.

For one overlong instant, he was quiet. 

Then he grinned ineffectually and jerked his chin toward her hand. “Finish the tea,” firm and gentle. “Let it help. Then I promise I will tell.”

She squinted hard enough to crinkle. “You are very lucky I like you,” she groused, taking too-big mouthfuls. The herbs and menthe were doing _something;_ cooling, it seemed, from simmering insides, out. 

But it wasn’t enough.

G’raha laughed thinly; shifted heel to heel. “I am,” he agreed. The rasp was back to his throat—husky, a purr. “Lucky, I mean. And glad—” He was hoarse now. “That is—for your fondness.”

Her eyes flicked up. He stood with his tea uncomfortably close to his mouth, drinking quickly, visibly torn between pulling and ducking her interest. And then their stares locked. She was chilled beneath the bedsheets, every ilm of flesh pebbled, and— _beg him to climb in._ She shook. _Make him touch you._ Small hairs along her arms prickled. She pulled the blankets higher, anxious to protect him from herself—

And watched his pupils _dilate,_ wide pools of pitch in his brilliant bright irises. 

His tongue flashed along the seam of his lips. “Is—” His tail lashed. He flinched and batted it back with a hand. “Is it easing anything at all?”

_Lose the bedclothes. Grab him. Show him what, exactly, needs easing—_

She choked. G’raha stumbled forward—perched beside her on the bunk. His hand on her shoulder, his fingertips, tense—

— _why did he sizzle like levin?_

She shook her head, coughing, thirsty just to _look_ —

_Oh, look—press your tongue to the rune on his neck and drink him in—_

The breath she took through her nose was metallic and painful, but the _hiss_ —the hiss between hard-clenched teeth belonged to _him._ And when she sought, she found him watching, breath rushed, vivid eyes completely drowned by pitch. It was chilling, _thrilling_ , to sense it; to know what happened with _him_ stemmed from _her._ Then, through the window behind them slipped a cool Mor Dhonan breeze. Laced with dew from the Lake and smoke from Castrum Centri, the zephyr ruffled his hair; stirred his long fringe—

Every thought in her mind stalled and vanished. 

That _smell._

So— _good._ Like G’raha, hardbacks and parchment, the trace tang of sweat, the zest of plain soap, sandalwood, and quill feathers. But there was something _else_ in the thick of it— _his very scent._ Rich, and subtle, and _delicious;_ it was hard to comprehend, like a lesson neglected. It took every onze of her wits not to hunt down that fragrance, not to _wrap herself in his arms and lick and beg him—_

“Once— _ahem—_ you mentioned—your father hails from Ilsabard.” His mug made a hollow complaint as he set it on the floor, stirring up more of that _aroma_. She punched her free hand in the cushions to keep it away from him. “Do forgive the liberty, but—” He cleared his throat. “Were you ever taught—” His voice cracked.

Her teeth were gnashed in her efforts to _stay back._ Just _why_ did she want so badly to _pounce?_ Another wave of _starving_ surged through her center. Her final gulp of tea, swallowed hard— “Raha _please just tell me.”_

“It would be of no particular consequence,” he blurted, eyes to the ceiling. “Unless—” His tail thumped the pallet. He smashed it down with a hand. “Unless your parentage branches from Garlean roots, in which milieu—” He managed to finish despite an awkward stammer. “C-cycles of oestrus—might run in your family.”

She stared. “Cycles of—” Every book and lecture on reproduction raced through her recollection: encyclopædias, the academy, articles with asides about some ancestries, Spoken. _“What?”_ No. “That—” Her brows bunched, ice in her spine. “What does that have to do with _my family?”_

Was it her imagination, or was G’raha breathing harder? “M-much like my own primordial pedigree,” he babbled, pedagogical, “Anthropologists posit that within some patterns of inheritance—that is, when certain homozygous traits are expressed, individuals in the lineage may, at times, appear to experience—more urgent fertility cycles.”

The air she drew into her lungs felt warmed, marked by whatever _machinations of birthright_ apparently enshelled her. “Is that what’s— _happening?”_

His face, so often so jolly, so _merry_ , looked drawn. “Shall I speak plainly or—”

“Always speak plainly,” she snapped, knuckles white on the cup and the blankets.

He inhaled, fast and sharp. “I can smell it,” he confessed, his low voice a shade darker. “You—ah, I mean—your—” He blushed bright enough to rival his Allagan eye. “Your scent of arousal.”

Blood throttled her neck. She spluttered—dropped the mug. It rolled to the edge of the mattress and he lunged to catch it, flinching past her shriek of outrage. 

“You can _smell that?”_

“Naturally, yes—” He wheezed as he righted the cup on the floor, using bare toes to shove it aside. “What I mean is—instinct drives the phenomenon—a chain reaction for all parties, and perhaps regrettably for _me—”_

She was incensed. “ _How long have you been able to smell it?”_

“Not long!” He was tensed. “It started past midnight—the tea should help—”

“Stop saying that!” she spat, and at once he looked crestfallen. Her lips pursed in regret. “But of course, my thanks for even _trying_ —for doing _anything at all to_ —” Her chest heaved in frustration, breath coming hotter than ever, like an oven burned within.She shoved both hands through her hair, yanking it up. “Why am I _cooking inside out?”_

His face was caught close to agony. “Indications emerge part and parcel,” G’raha muttered. “The only way to fully— _resolve it,_ is—”

Before he could start clearing his throat ad nauseam again, she said it. 

“Sex.”

The air left his lungs in a whoosh. His stunned, halted breath. “W—yes, but—other palliative remedies—”

“Like what?” She threw up her hands. “Taking a swim with the bloody damned Keeper?” 

That made him laugh, loud and hearty. _Much better._ “You could try _._ I doubt the bones of Midgardsormr would mind if—” He fell silent; watched numbly as, in a fit of desperation, she heaved off the blankets. 

Hot, _too hot._ She rucked her nightgown up her thighs; rolled long sleeves to the elbow and loosed a rough breath—looked back to find him eyes dark, ears flat, jaw clenched, tail lashing. Perhaps, just like her—

All he wanted was to _pounce._

She studied him more carefully. He stared back, unblinking. 

Between them, a current was whirling—a precipice, rapidly shrinking. 

Words began to spill from his lips. “I would never presume—never _ask if you—_ ” He coughed, brow knitted, ears pinned. “What am I saying,” he muttered, half to himself. He combed one hand through his fringe and shook his head, beads of moisture on his temple. “Forget that I—”

“No.” The air was dense with him now—his tantalizing essence _,_ cloying her senses. She shivered, bone-and-marrow deep, and something inside her ran tight, stretched like one of his bowstrings. “Please say what you were thinking.” 

He was frozen.

“Ah—” He struggled, uncharacteristic. She waited; watched him swipe his tongue across his lips, and then … Then, eyes a shade away from feral, he leaned nearer—exhaled, and his wild, ravenous stare found her mouth. He pushed back a stray wisp of copper hair. “Can I ask you a question?”

Her answer was automatic impulse. “Always.”

Seated, she still loomed a breadth overhead. But as distance dwindled between them, more and more _compelling,_ she wanted him _above,_ her long limbs pinned by the humble force of his gravity. With the haze of him heavy around her, everything he did was _magnetic_.

The delicate heat of his voice as he spoke. “Would you tell me, Samantha,” he breathed, watching fiercely through his lashes, “If you wanted—my assistance?” 

The barest tilt of her neck, and foreheads met. They shared the air in the last flash of space between their mouths.

Thancred’s rules were forced and tired, all denial, when what she wanted was to _submit._ To admit that, since the start of it, plotting the Labyrinth, scaling the Relic—even outpaced in _Urth’s Gift—_ all she really wanted was—

“G’raha—” The glottal consonant of his tribe slipped accidentally into place, a formality asked to forgo long ago.

He sounded parched. “Yes?”

“How would you—” And her tongue was a desert. She tried again. “Assist?”

Air escaped him like mist from a kettle. She felt his exhalation wash across her lips; the electric proximity of his mouth as he spoke to her again. “Did—would you—” She felt him viciously tremble. “Should I describe it?”

_Azeyma on high—_

“Yes.” It was a greedy, wanton gasp, the way it left her. To hells with her own frenzied conceptions—

“Tell me,” she added, barely ashamed that she was panting, “Exactly—how you might _help me.”_

☽ ✧ ☾

* * *


	4. Solstice, Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Broad hands snatched her face. She thrilled at the contact—no push or pull. Instead, he merely clung as he recaptured his breath, panting as though they just raced through the maze of the Fogfens. “Samantha.” His voice was dark, deadly serious. “Are you saying—”
> 
> “That I wanted to kiss you this whole entire time?” She laughed again. Somehow the giggling shattered the tension, helped pull her glazed focus away from the thirst. “Yes, you nutty, nattering, nonpareil—”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NSFW, 18+. Hurt/comfort/confusion. WoL POV, self-loathing masturbation and pain of remembrance (historical failures), then continued WoL/G'raha flashback.

* * *

✧ ☄ ☽

A bead of sweat itched her upper lip. She licked it away.

Bare backbone pressed to cool sandstone wall, the Warrior of Light arched and twisted, both hands caught between her legs. Every ilm of skin was burning-damp. Dry air passed through the window to soothe, but she knew _nothing would—_

_Nothing, nothing—_

She struggled. The touch of her fingers was limited, lacking _—_ nothing compared to what she wished to reminisce. But she would do everything, _every damned thing_ in her wits to _resist,_ because she knew how that fantasy ended. The beautiful prince trapped himself in the Tower. The wayward witch loved him, bereft of the valor to tell it. Wherewithal stripped by pain prior, she remained all but silent.

_I would have seen you be sovereign—_

Blunt teeth, sharp where they crushed her own lip. Blood on her tongue. The flesh caught between her thighs prickled, besieged by sensation. She would have helped Raha of the G tribe seize all of Allag, but suffered his absence instead. Umbral in exodus, her stuttering, butterfly heart became a frozen shell.

A crone; never princess or empress.

_Never, never—_

A flare between her legs. A hiss between her teeth. Warrior, Hero—frail and fractured vessel. Longtime broken, cracked and dreadful, unfit for the dazzling, summertime grin of the knight that dared save her. 

_That smile_ —

His name escaped her lips in a silvery, furious simmer. Grief slammed hard into her chest, cold as ice, and for a glimmer, the friction inside her went still. Not the relief she was seeking, but thinking, already, of wounds that yet festered _—_

Blood and death and brutal betrayal. Loss after loss, again. Failure. Tears spilled down her face.

She forced herself to finish—thought instead of one lamb become wyrmking, one rook-feathered warden—two fell beasts unbending that borrowed her burdens. Her scourge of Light never fazed them, bitter and bright—

Tore her heart to their orbit by sheer force of their might.

Pleasure surged, mixed with pain, through her body. The stray and his beautiful bastard; hound and master—claws and teeth between them, cleaving worser fates. For what would she have been without them but _wasting;_ shriveled and withered, naught but ash and faded petals, rib-marrow cradling a knave kit’s ancient arrow?

 _... Yes,_ he said. _Something has come back to me. But we need not speak of these things now. It was not my place to keep you._

Fire raced through her veins. 

“Like hell,” she spat. 

As though he could _listen_. As though G’raha Tia could _hear her,_ in the glittering spire where he slept.

_I wanted you to stay. Face the future together—_

Her heel slipped. One bent leg slapped, heavy, to the floor, and her face wrinkled into something hideous. 

Reckless, confident Raha, unapologetically thrilled. 

The ceiling blurred. Her phoenix heart fluttered.

Before or even after, she never met someone like _him—_ young historiographer crammed full of figures, buoyant braggart brimming with _life._ He was mirth and mischief distilled, cunning cut with pure kindness. The first time they spoke was like basking in sunshine; balmy daybreak melting chills of winter. Warm but cool around the edges, brilliant like crystal, from almost the moment he opened his mouth …

She hung on every word. Kept it hidden. 

_Nothing worth doing ever came easy._

Samantha sucked a breath through clenched teeth and rearranged her hands.

She thought he saw; was sure, with those eyes—but despite the meager years she loomed senior, she felt distant. Wanting him was peril, a threat to wounds halfway mended. To his misbehavior she brought her procedures, gloom to his teeming delight. 

_I loved you and I showed you and you felt it and you left._

In what world would the playful paleographer have _stayed?_ How might two willful overwrought bookworms have written new chapters—pushed aside pride and precaution for _more than one page?_

In her haste to know him, did she throw away the key?

_Tell me how you might help me._

* * *

His breathing was shallow. 

G’raha stroked the tips of their noses together, then screwed his eyes shut. “The pheromones have both of us sozzled." His voice wobbled. “You only ask—only wish me to say such things on account of the—”

“No.” A wild laugh bubbled to her mouth. “Well I suppose yes, but—”

 _All this time,_ she wanted to shout. _Since almost the moment we met—_

 _Gods,_ but she _wanted him._

She tossed her head and cackled, nervous momentum flowing over. He watched, eyes large and rattled, and— “I want to kiss you badly,” she confessed. Warmth surged to her face but there he had it; the truth, direct from her lips. She combed both hands up his nape to twine in soft copper hair, glad that it was unplaited.

He was nothing if not insistent. “That would be the pheromones ag— _ah—”_

On impulse, she stroked the base of his ears, and G’raha made a new sound; hum mixed with deep-seated rumble, lips parted, eyes fluttered back to show whites. He tried to compose himself, scowling hotly. “Samantha, we—”

“Raha—” His ears were _like velvet._ With every finger she traced them, bottoms to silken tops, and he swallowed another low-purring rumble. She grumbled, affronted and husky. “I wanted you long before the damned _pheromones.”_

He blinked. His pupils slitted like a predator. 

Something untamed crossed his expression. “Wh—” Ears flicked her palms, mismatched eyes scouring her face. _“Come again?”_

She huffed. Her thumbs found his neck; traced along his runic marks. “Ever since the beginning.” The fact tumbled out, inconceivably easy. Her palms met bare, muscled shoulders, handspan finding his Eye of Baldesion. His skin was freckled, sunburned, _warm._ “I must have done a bloody terrific job hiding—”

Broad hands snatched her face. She thrilled at the contact—no push or pull. Instead, he merely clung as he recaptured his breath, panting as though they just raced through the maze of the Fogfens. “Samantha.” His voice was dark, deadly serious. “Are you saying—”

“That I wanted to kiss you this _whole entire time?”_ She laughed again. Somehow the giggling shattered the tension, helped pull her glazed focus away from the thirst. “Yes, you nutty, nattering, nonpareil—”

His hands raked through her hair. She saw his brow tense—felt the puff of his growl, and—

“In that case—”

The _unbelievable softness of his mouth._

No words sufficed in any vernacular, any language, from any etymological origin to _describe—_

_Lush and luxuriant—arcane and sublime._

He tasted so _good,_ sweet musk and apprehension—rich and bitter and wholly _divine._

Her tongue traced the shape of his lips and he rumbled, face ruddy. His eyes fluttered shut. He swallowed the rest of his questions, grunting as she pulled his bottom lip into her mouth. G’raha followed with a wet, bruising kiss, tongues swirled together—took her lip between his teeth to suck in fierce retaliation. Time blurred and slipped by as they feasted. 

Time, for them, became _irrelevant._

When she broke away for air, it was in shocked satisfaction, watching as he touched his swollen mouth. “Twelve,” he breathed, unadulterated worship. His eyes were hooded, pupils blown so wide and stunned his bright irises were black. “Would you still like me to—”

She hooked her elbows at his neck, and flushed like astral fire. “I might have never dared before tonight.” She forced herself to hold his covetous stare. “But tell me, Raha, what you want.”

He kept their eyes locked like he was drowning; like he was losing sight, and she, a glimmer of light.

Still, words seemed to stall in his throat. “Come closer—” His trembling hands found her waist. “Might I hold you in my—ah—” His face went so rosy it clashed with his hair. “In my lap—”

And though she was the larger, she crept at once to obey him. Uneasy energy itched through the air. Both were quiet, disbelieving as she balanced her weight, long legs bent astride his thighs. A rumble rolled through his chest. _“Mm—_ gods—” He moved in reflex as she settled, and she felt it through his flannels—his _cock,_ so hard the outline was clearer than crystal. Flames licked and tugged behind her navel. She held her lip between her teeth as hands dragged down her spine, a reverent path to the curve of her backside. He hooked fingers at her knees; let himself take careful hold of her and _shivered._ “Your clothes.” He stared up at her; ghosted pert nose and lips across her breasts. His brows knitted. “I would see—every ilm if you would let me—”

She yanked the useless nightgown overhead. Left only in smalls, the outpost was chilly, frigid juxtaposed with her inferno. Her nipples pulled to tight peaks and his awestruck eyes were on them. Nerves and pride rode her in waves, equal measure. 

“A-and?” Braver than she felt, she tangled hands in his hair and sat full upon him, the better to confirm how much he craved her.

His lips hung slack, his mouth a breath open. He shut it to search every trace of her body; to comb both palms up the naked expanse of her back. G’raha met her watching eyes in astonishment, button nose ruddy, ginger hair rumpled by her fingers. His chest rose and fell. “This feels less and less like _reality_ —” his hands at her haunches, testing the band of her pantalettes. “Less and less—” he was breathless, “Like mere _talking.”_

Her face was flaming hot. “Tell me to stop if—”

“Never stop,” he gasped, dark. “Take all you want of me.”

Terrified and emboldened, she hooked her wrists at his neck; gave a timid dip of her pelvis. Though their last echelons of clothing yet dulled the sensation, the motion caught the girth of his member, and—

His eyes rolled back. “Heavens,” he grunted, gripping her thighs, flexing _up._ Absolute rapture spiked through her bloodstream. She moaned at the feel of hard curve against softness. _That, that, that._

White stars burst behind her eyes. She choked and stifled a sob. _“Raha—”_

A man in thrall to a goddess of venery, he pulled her legs tighter, grinding up. “Samantha,” he breathed, hips moving, friction building, intent and insistent. “I want so badly to touch you—to _use my mouth—”_

She squirmed, numbed and hollowed by need. _“Please.”_

He wet his lips and leaned in. The tip of his nose brushed the valley of her breasts, down along one swell, and—the touch was new, unpracticed, but her shout echoed through the outpost before she could catch it. “’m sorry—”

He shook his head, eyes hot and ravenous. “Be loud, by all means,” he breathed—and his tongue was back on her. She arched to crush her aching breast into his mouth, and he opened wide on instinct; licked and sucked and rumbled. “How long have I _wanted to taste you?”_ He nibbled to the other.

She writhed in sweet agony. Pleasure swallowed her body, swift and unexpected, and somehow she was filled with a crescendo. When the blindness left her eyes, her knuckles were white on his shoulders, the heat between her legs dulled very slightly. G’raha still lavished attention, his satisfied stare on her face, a proud and subtle thrumming from within. He relinquished his mouthful with an enthusiastic kiss. “Did you—?”

Something about the way he simply _looked at her—_

Absolute devotion prickled through her chest. She nodded, cheeks hot.

“Oh _good,_ ” he breathed, and if the crest took the edge off the hunger, it was only for a moment; for the sound of his voice, so ecstatic, so _delighted,_ made the yearning surge in force between her legs.

She panted through the words. “Would it be alright if I—”

Her embarrassment stopped her, but he listened, eyes wide, rapt with attention. “Anything.”

Her brow crinkled. “Would you—” She moved from his lap—trembled at the rush of cool air against the spots his mouth made wet. Slowly, she stretched against rumpled blankets and motioned above her, flushed from her chest to her ears. “Touch me like—” She slipped one palm between her open legs.

G’raha made a sour sound of impatience and lunged. This kiss was a tangle of tongues and limbs and lashing tail. All loose bedclothes were lost to the floor. One of his hands dipped to ghost her pantalettes and she bit back a shout. 

“Raha _please—”_

“I need you to be sure,” he growled, fast and dire— “Because I have dreamt of you _too often,_ and—”

“So have I.” She swallowed a petulant whimper and spread her thighs wide.

Breath fanned her ear. He used the tips of careful fingers to chart what was hidden by thin, dampened linen. He very barely stroked, and yet— “Thaliak—” Teeth grazed her neck and his voice shook. “Dare I imagine you want me _this badly?”_

“I do,” she groaned, tossing her head. “I _have._ Whatever you will give me—”

And he pushed past her smalls and light blanched her vision as he _touched her._

The pads of his fingertips uncovered clandestine flesh _—_ the heat of his breath on her neck. “Like this?” Her hips canted up into his hand and he mapped her, very gently, lips parted on her skin. “I hope that means yes—”

“Yes,” she grunted. He laughed with relief, sucking the lobe of her ear between teeth. His thumb ghosted her clit, and she bucked into the contact, starving and frantic. “Even if you keep _teasing—”_

“I want to do so much more,” he whispered, dark and quiet. He leaned above her, and there was something like dread in his eyes, then—something still just shy of downright feral. “But—”

“Whatever it is,” she begged, hoping she looked properly desperate, _“Please do it.”_

He steeled himself and found the place that ached most with the tip of his finger. She groaned. “There.” There where she was _hollow._ She arched to coax him; gasped as one ilm slipped inside. Her sex gripped him tightly, pulling him knuckle by knuckle—the first, then the second of his forefingers, sinking fast and easy. 

“Holy heavens.” His voice cracked and he nuzzled her throat, ear flicking her neck. “Can you feel—how _wet—_ ” He curled his fingers, and white began to build behind her eyes. 

“More,” she begged, her blood a glissando—but the tip of his third finger stalled her. “Less—”

And his whole hand was gone like she had burned him, his eyes wide and repentant, mouth leaving penitent kisses everywhere within reach. “Twelve.” His face was hot against her skin. _“Forgive me—”_

She cackled thinly, interrupting. “Did I tell you to stop?”

He moved to blink down at her, owlish, lovely copper hair mussed around his rosy, handsome face. His tail thumped the mattress. “N-not that I—”

She grabbed his wrist and eased his hand back between; watched his ears perk forward. His fingers were cool with her slickness, cautiously caressing. “I want to make you come again,” he said, gruff and determined.

She arched up to whisper. “Would you like to use your mouth?”

He pounced. The force of his third kiss caused their teeth to click together, and she laughed and fell back.

G’raha reined himself in—rose to stoop between her knees, fingers hooked, at last, in the band of her pantalettes. “Help me to—” She shoved both hands to assist before he could finish, kicking off the last impediment.

The way he looked at her then was with nothing short of exaltation, eyes tracing every secret now exposed to him. His attention was blistering, even above the inferno in her blood. “Gods, Samantha,” he breathed.

With a nebulous twinge of indignity, she laughed and squeezed her thighs together. “What is it?”

He moved in; wet his mouth for the fourth kiss. “Just that I must surely be dreaming.” 

It was soft and discovering, the way their tongues moved together. She chased the taste of him; lost herself to slow, tender pleasure. “Then we must be dreaming together,” she told his lips, and he smiled.

He reached for her knees. She let him spread them; watched as he stroked humbled fingers down her thighs. “Forgive me but—I _love these,_ ” he whispered, kneading sweetly, and the ample heat in her body found her cheeks as she—

_Love?_

Hopeful static filled her ears. He kissed past her breasts, soft hair tickling her nipples. “And _these.”_ He paused to give them more attention. She huffed as he nibbled gently; licked a path along her navel and down, down, down. “But _oh_ —” He buried his nose in her curls and groaned again, ravenous. “I never dared to think I might—”

He wasted no more time and _licked her._

She bucked into his mouth; saw stars as he _sucked._ His tongue swirled in lazy circles—dipped inside her—flicked back up along her clit. A rattling whimper escaped her, and he growled in response.

“Come,” he demanded, and she keened in outright bliss.

His name fell from her lips like prayer as she toppled and plunged from the ledge, riding the thrill of another sharp climax. “That feels so good,” she wept, breathless—choked on a pitiful groan as he thrummed and curled two fingers back in.

His tongue flickered, fingers stroking gently. Over and over, again and again, she circled that invisible precipice—but never dropped back in _._ G’raha kissed her clit and she watched as he observed her through his lashes, something tacit in his stare. “Tell me what you’re thinking,” she panted, one hand raking his hair.

His eyes fluttered. Another kiss—a long, slow drag of that _wonderful tongue._ A low hum in his throat. “I was thinking—” He took a breath; kissed along her inner thigh, and bit, and _licked._ His ears tickled her legs. “Much as I _relish it—_ ” and the purr that laced the words was proof enough, “My mouth might not, in actuality, be the best instrument for this.”

She combed back his fringe and the look on her face was bewildered, shifting slowly to—

 _Oh._

G’raha rose, ears stiff, swiping the back of his hand down his chin. Nervous promise glinted in his eyes. 

Her fire within flared to something obscene. Feverish, she steadied wobbly legs and sat to stare intently. “Which one, then?”

On cue, redness crept up the pale of his chest. Still, he moved in. “I believe you know _which one.”_

She hooked arms at his neck. “I would still like to hear your … _hypothesis.”_

Kiss number five had her taste spiked throughout, his noises increasingly desperate. “Are you—” he surfaced for air; back down to leave a love bite on her shoulder. “Treating this like _research?”_

She tackled him to the bed. “More like—” A laugh, very breathy. “Systematic investigation.”

His cheeks were so dark she thought he might combust. “You—” a peck for emphasis, “—are absolutely _ridiculous.”_

She balanced herself above him on elbows, hair tumbling down, brows quirked in suspense.

His face was caught between mirth and frustration. “You want me to offer my— _that,_ without preamble?”

She crowed a very ugly cackle. “You call this _without preamble?”_

His eyes sparkled. G’raha wrestled her back to the mattress, rolling above. “You know how I feel about exposition,” he said, simpering big enough to dimple. His tail flicked and swished, and she barked as he covered her neck with rough kisses. 

“Then say it out loud!”

He made a sullen sound against her throat. “Hush.”

She hummed, tossing her head. “No. I’d much rather hear about your— _ah!”_ She squealed as he bit with bruising force; shoved back his smirking face—felt him grin like an imp against her guarding hand. And so the sixth kiss came to be most like _them,_ full of leering and horseplay and breathless, easy giggles. 

“But yes,” at last, he conceded. Braced above, he stroked a palm down her neck—let his thumb pause on marks from his teeth and roughhousing, and shivered. He brushed their noses together; nipped at her mouth. “For your satisfaction—” He took a shaky breath. “You may need to take me to completion.”

Her voice was quieter than intended. “To completion,” she echoed, eyes roving his face.

“As in—” His breath hitched. Suddenly self-conscious, he gazed through heavy lashes. “I was never very skilled at talking bawdy, you know.”

She blushed and smoothed back his hair. “Then say it like a scholar. I like that much better.”

He licked his lips, eyes half-lidded. “Very well.” He settled against her. “The phenomenon—” He faltered. “Derives itself from creature priority; the drive, foremost, to endure.” She crooked her legs to take his weight; cradled his narrow waist between her thighs. Now, with naught between them but his overheated flannels, his hardness pressed, lengthwise, against her. “To reproduce—leave _legacies_ —the urge to carry on.” He rested their foreheads together. “Our most fundamental instincts, manifest.”

She trembled. The burning had tempered just to _listen,_ her fingers absently combing his hair. “And here you are still in your nightpants.”

Arms encircled her. When she met his eyes, his pupils narrowed to slits. Teal and scarlet seemed wrought of tourmaline and garnet. “If you take me inside,” he said, deadly serious, the edge of his smooth voice laced with rumbles, “I fear my own instincts might—” He swallowed hard and raked his hands around the swell of her thighs; took a stiff, sharp breath. “Annihilate my mind.”

She found his hot stare; arced into his grip and huffed at the rapture of being so savagely _desired._ “But you make me feel safe,” she confessed, heat ablaze through her center. _So warm, so protected—_

So _positively cherished._

“I've never felt like this before,” and words were pouring out. “Not with anyone else.” The dam was cracked; she was powerless to staunch it. “Not before _you,_ Raha _—_ the cleverest, _wittiest,_ most unselfish—”

“Thaliak help me.” The breath he took sounded painful, and that’s what the seventh kiss felt like—greedy and gasping for air. “Oh _gods_ —” His grip on her backside for leverage, he pitched to grind them together. “Say it again,” he pled. “Tell me those breathtaking _unthinkable things—”_

She used her weight to roll them over; all but clambered astride. “You know _so much.”_ She smoothed hands down his chest. Her fingers caught on sparse wisps of auburn toward the middle, the rungs of his sturdy ribcage in high relief. His air came harder. “You always make me _laugh._ And despite the tomfoolery—” She seated herself on the ridge of his hardness and tried not to writhe. _“Mm—_ G’raha Tia—I know how _wise and wonderful you are—”_

His cock jerked against her. _“Samantha Rosalyn_ —” He was winded, his twice-bitten lips flushed and parted. “Upon—every onze of my— _intellectual honor_ —” Something excruciating crossed his face. “If I _dare_ divest these trousers—”

It was all the invitation she needed. 

☽ ✧ ☾

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :')

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoyed this, please take a glance at my body of works!  
> I like exploring the same types of Themes (complicated love, pining, nostalgia) throughout. ♡
> 
> Encouraged, as tends to happen these days, by the [Book Club](https://discord.gg/qGQ8Grj) ♡


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